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Neteyam could spend hours watching Aonung sleep, and sometimes, he did. In the stillness of the night, when the rest of the village was at peace, Neteyam would quietly slip closer, his fingers itching to reach out and touch Aonung, but he restrained himself—at least for a little while. He knew Aonung needed his rest, and besides, there was something special about simply observing the way Aonung’s breath rose and fell, his chest moving in a steady rhythm that calmed Neteyam more than any meditation ever could.
It was in these moments of peace that Neteyam felt like he had Aonung all to himself. It wasn’t just about love—though he loved Aonung deeply—it was more than that. It was about possession, in the gentlest, purest sense. When Aonung was awake, he belonged to everyone: his family, his clan, his duty as the heir to the Metkayina. But in sleep, when his walls came down, Aonung was Neteyam’s and no one else’s.
It had become a ritual of sorts. Every day, after they finished sparring in the late afternoon, Neteyam would suggest they share a meal. He made sure Aonung ate his fill, serving him food with a nonchalance that belied the care behind every action. He would watch Aonung eat, knowing that soon enough, the full stomach and the fatigue of the day’s training would have him nodding off.
When they lay down to rest, Neteyam would wait, his heart pounding softly in his chest as Aonung’s breathing evened out. And then, when he was sure Aonung was fast asleep, Neteyam would reach for him.
It started with small, tentative touches—fingers brushing the edge of Aonung’s hair, stroking the braids that had grown longer since they first met. Neteyam loved those braids, the beads and seashells carefully woven in, and the way they told the story of Aonung’s identity. They were a part of him, just as much as his sharp eyes or his teasing grin, and Neteyam found himself drawn to them like a moth to flame.
Sometimes, Neteyam would gently braid a few strands of Aonung’s hair himself, adding his own delicate touch to the intricate work. It was something deeply intimate in Na'vi culture—caring for another's hair—and Aonung had no idea that Neteyam had been quietly marking him with every new braid. Each addition was a silent promise, a declaration of feelings that Neteyam wasn’t quite ready to speak aloud.
Aonung, oblivious in his slumber, would stir occasionally, his tail flicking, his muscles twitching under Neteyam’s gentle hands. But he never woke, and that was just how Neteyam liked it. There was something sacred about this quiet, stolen time. It was a time where Neteyam didn’t have to be the perfect eldest son, the protector of his siblings, or the warrior in training. In these moments, he was just Neteyam, and Aonung was just Aonung.
Neteyam smiled to himself, running his fingers along the accessories Aonung wore on his tail. He had always been fascinated by them—so carefully chosen, each piece representing something important to Aonung. He had never asked Aonung what they meant, but he felt like he understood, in a way. Each bead, each shell, each carved bone was a piece of Aonung’s identity, a reflection of the parts of him that Neteyam had come to know and love.
In his sleep, Aonung sometimes smiled too, his lips curling into a gentle grin, and Neteyam wondered what he was dreaming about. It warmed his heart to think that, perhaps, Aonung was dreaming of something good—something that made him happy. Maybe, in some small way, Neteyam was part of those dreams. Maybe that smile was meant for him.
But even when Aonung wasn’t smiling, even when he shifted and murmured in his sleep, Neteyam felt content. It was enough just to be here, to share this space with him. It was enough to see Aonung’s frown disappear, to watch as the burdens of the day melted away, leaving behind a peaceful, quiet version of the boy he loved.
During the day, Aonung could be brash, sometimes even harsh, his confidence bordering on arrogance. He had a reputation for being a bully, especially toward Neteyam and his siblings when they first arrived in the clan. But over time, Neteyam had seen the other side of him. He had seen the way Aonung cared for Tsireya, the way he looked out for the younger members of the clan, the way he softened around his family. He had seen the transformation from someone who once seemed like an adversary into someone Neteyam could trust implicitly, even with his siblings’ safety.
Neteyam loved that about him too—the way he had changed, grown, evolved into someone who wasn’t just the heir of the Metkayina but someone Neteyam could count on. It had happened slowly, over time, but it was real. And now, Neteyam trusted Aonung with his heart, even if he hadn’t said it aloud.
And oh, how Neteyam loved Aonung’s cooking. It was simple, but there was something about the way Aonung prepared their meals that made it special. He put care into everything he did, even if he tried to hide it behind a casual shrug or a dismissive comment. But Neteyam saw through that. He saw how Aonung always made sure everyone else had food before he served himself, how he quietly checked that everyone was satisfied before he took his own portion.
All of these things—the way Aonung had become someone Neteyam could trust, the way he cared for his family, the way he smiled in his sleep—only deepened Neteyam’s feelings. But there was something about the nighttime when Aonung was vulnerable and quiet, that made those feelings almost unbearable. In the daylight, Neteyam could push them aside, focus on their duties, their training. But at night, when Aonung was asleep beside him, all those carefully hidden emotions came rushing to the surface.
Neteyam didn’t know how long he could keep pretending. He didn’t know how much longer he could watch Aonung sleep without wanting to wake him up, without wanting to tell him everything.
But for now, he was content. For now, he could let himself enjoy these moments where Aonung was just Aonung—no titles, no responsibilities, no expectations. When Aonung was asleep, he was Neteyam’s, and that was enough.
At least, for now.